Rabbit Song
by Basser
Summary: Missing scenes and snippets from Can't Rewind Now as told from the point of view of Eric Crenshaw. "Sherlock smelled of cigarettes and chemicals, of borrowed soap and fabric softener... and still, faintly, of strawberries."
1. Heartbeats

_**A/N: **__How many of you are ready to kill me for the erratic update schedule and posting all these random new stories while you're waiting on me to finish chapters? Hah, well, this is just how I work, sorry._

_Anyway this is something that just won't leave me alone. I really miss writing Eric, it seems, and so much of his and Sherlock's relationship in Can't Rewind had to be skipped over for the sake of the storyline... yet my brain keeps filling in those little gaps and making up ridiculously fluffy little side-stories for them when I'm trying to write other fics. Having this to add on to whenever I feel so inclined will hopefully help mitigate that distraction._

_And so to whoever bothers to read this... hope you like fluffy Sherlock/OC drivel! Cause that's pretty much all this is, haha._

* * *

**««**

Sherlock smelled of cigarettes and chemicals, of borrowed soap and fabric softener... and still, faintly, of strawberries.

Eric catalogued all this as he lay quietly in the pre-dawn twilight of his room, pinned to the bed by the skinny prat of a supergenius who'd apparently decided to use him as a pillow sometime during the night. Anyone else, and he'd have most likely shoved them off by now - grumbled something about _keep to yer own side_ and resolutely scooted as far over to his half of the mattress as possible. Not that he necessarily had a problem with _touching _people, of course... it was just that ever since breaking up with Luce he'd been _(pretty understandably, he figured)_ more than a bit wary of any sort of intimate contact not expressly initiated by himself.

But as he lay there, listening to the soft breathing of the man curled around his chest, he found he really just didn't _want_ to push Sherlock away. True, they'd only met about eight hours ago... but in that time they'd played several (hilariously one-sided) matches of Halo, committed half a dozen crimes together, and then went and bloody _snogged._ How in the hell things had managed to progress that quickly or in that _order_ Eric honestly had no clue.

Did it really matter, though? _Live in the moment_, that's what he'd been repeating to himself over and over for months now. Life was too short, too fleeting, too _cruel_ to waste precious time worrying about the _what ifs_ and the _whys._

Sherlock was a drug addict - that much was _completely_ bleeding obvious. Visibly underweight, dependent on cocaine to function and probably well on his way to some sort of fatal lung disease if the chain smoking was anything to go by. And if Eric were looking for anything like a long-term relationship that would be just about the holy trinity of _things to damn well avoid._

But 'long-term' as an attainable goal was a concept Eric had abandoned years ago. Now he just drifted, hoping for a flash of something like happiness before the inevitability of death finally got round to his number.

Eric was _frightened _of dying, of course, didn't like to think about it... but that fear was little more than the basic backdrop of his life at this point; the constant dread of something you had no hope of changing, no chance of ever avoiding. Weed could take the edge off the tangled knot of anxiety, make it halfway _bearable_... never erase it completely, though. Still there always loomed the knowledge that he was _nothing_, no one, a near-useless castoff of society, tenuously employed by a criminal organisation, alone and _defenceless_ just waiting to be arrested or shot or stabbed or any of another million _horrible_ _horrible things..._

A sudden spike of terror shot through his gut, an all-too-familiar rising tide of anxiety creeping along his lungs in its wake. Without really meaning to he raised his arms and hugged Sherlock closer to his chest. Probably tighter than was comfortable for either of them, really, but since Sherlock was almost certainly out for the count _(crashing plus the shakes never worked out great for anyone, genius or not) _he figured it was permissible, just this once, to hug the living daylights out of him.

He only held it for a second or two though, then let his grip relax and just lay there cradling the bony, awkward prat who'd so inexplicably chosen _him_, of all people, to latch onto. Because, yeah, maybe they were both gay and maybe finding other homosexuals their age was a bloody nightmare around this district... but hell Sherlock was bloody _gorgeous_, he could probably convert half the fucking neighbourhood if he set his mind to it.

Eric had been hovering around the man like a schoolgirl with a crush for the last few hours, honestly just hoping he'd be noticed. Certainly not _kissed -_ no bleeding _way_... he'd have been happy enough with a passing glance, a word or two. But strangely, _incredibly_, Sherlock had not only accepted the undue attention but seemed to take it as some sort of invitation to _hover right back_. The two of them had spent the afternoon orbiting each other like the universe's most socially inept pair of satellites. And somehow or other that had all managed to lead right to... well, to _this._ To lying in bed, legs entwined, Sherlock half on top of him and Eric hugging the other boy to his chest like a goddamned stuffed bear.

Would Sherlock come to his senses when he woke up? _(Okay, well actually probably not... he'd be hung over from the cocaine bender - likely not even halfway coherent for another ten or twelve hours unless he did another hit... but still, metaphorical musings and all.)_ Or would perhaps some dashing young dealer or junkie knock on the door tomorrow and steal him away? Eric wouldn't exactly have a snowflake's chance in hell to compete for the genius's attention against someone else, timid and useless as he was.

No... the best he could really hope for was to try to keep himself from overthinking this and ruining it all like he usually did. Had to accept the inevitable - that life goes on, people leave, he'd end up alone - but not let that knowledge upset him. Enjoy this while it lasted.

Sherlock would be a fleeting moment in his life - like a comet, streaking across the sky before it either disappeared forever or impacted the ground to leave a smoking crater where they'd both once stood.

That was really it, then, wasn't it? In the end it would all come down two possible outcomes: abandonment, or death.

And as he lay there listening to Sherlock's soft breathing, feeling the thump of their heartbeats in tandem, watching the shifting shadows on the ceiling above... Eric found that, somehow, he wasn't afraid.

Oh, the dull thrum of anxiety that followed him everywhere was still very much present - but for once it wasn't worry for the future or the pointlessness of life or senseless tragedy that knotted up inside his chest and stole his breath away. In fact all he could really think to be nervous about right now was how on _earth_ he was going to manage to keep this thing with Sherlock going for as long as possible.

As far as goals went that was a bit stupid, honestly; no _live happily ever after_'s or _find true love_'s... just a simple, flat, _try not to fuck up._

But hey, even a stupid goal was still a _goal_, wasn't it?

With a quiet chuckle at his own silly thoughts he let one of his arms flop down to rest on the mattress beside him, leaving the other loosely curled around Sherlock's shoulders. It was probably a decent enough time to get up - find something for breakfast, maybe, and see what sort of business needed doing today.

Getting up would mean moving, though... and moving would mean shoving Sherlock away.

Eric glanced down at the sleeping boy on his chest.

_... not a chance._

With a smile he shut his eyes, letting himself be lulled back to sleep by the quiet pulse of two heartbeats.

**««**


	2. Distraction

**««**

Waking up with a cast on one arm and a pounding headache wasn't, as far as Eric was concerned, the picture perfect way to greet a morning.

Upon opening his eyes, however, he quickly decided he wasn't all that upset. Mostly because along with the pain and discomfort there appeared to be a pair of grey-blue eyes staring intently into his face, the press of a warm (if somewhat uncomfortably bony) body against his, and the distinctly foreign sensation of being... _safe._

Why he should feel _safe_ when a bloody nutcase with terrifying fighting skills was staring him right in the face Eric had no idea. But he did. Really quite sound and secure in general. Compared to the usual knot of undefined neurotic worry that tended to dominate his existence it was practically heaven.

... but it was also really, _really_ weird.

He was so preoccupied with this puzzling lack of anxiety that he didn't immediately notice Sherlock had been saying something.

"Wha'...?" he asked, blinking back up into the other boy's gaze. Sherlock frowned in vague consternation and poked him in the side _(evidently they were tangled up in an awkward half-hug, half-sprawl again; Eric really had to figure out how Sherlock kept managing to get him in this position)_ before not-quite-irritably repeating himself.

"I _said_ it's almost ten," he reiterated, gesturing toward the bedside clock with his shoulder. "Your arm is going to start hurting very badly if you don't get up and take a pain reliever soon."

"Oh... yeah, I guess so." To be honest his arm was _already_ hurting pretty badly, but Eric wasn't all that bothered by it. He'd broken his fair share of bones back when he was younger, after all, and had a couple bad dislocations thanks to football. But with Rose and Bailey to look after there really hadn't been much time to fret over his own health, so he'd gotten pretty good at ignoring things like lack of sleep, hunger and injuries.

Sherlock didn't seem inclined to let him sweep this one under the rug, though. He pushed himself up on one arm _(Eric noticed with some amusement that the skinny prat had stolen one of his shirts out of the clothes hamper sometime last night)_ and turned to regard the rest of the bedroom over his shoulder.

"Where did you put the pills they gave you at the hospital?"

Eric scrunched his face up trying to remember. Everything from last night was sort of... hazy.

"Er... in me coat pocket, I think," he finally recalled.

He and Sherlock both looked over at Eric's coat, hanging on the closet door a good few metres away. After a moment Sherlock huffed to himself and let his arm give out, flopping gently down on Eric's uninjured side with a sullen frown.

"I don't want to get out of bed," he muttered petulantly.

Eric shrugged, ignoring the twinge of pain the action produced in his wrist. "So don't."

"But oxycodone has a biological half-life of four hours, and it's been nearly seven since you took any."

That was a valid enough point, but Eric was more interested in how completely weird it was for anyone to just know something like that off the top of their head.

"Is yer brain like a giant library?" he asked somewhat blankly. For some reason he was picturing just like... stacks and _stacks _of books all crammed into the other boy's skull. No _wonder_ the prat always seemed so distracted - his whole head must be full of little bits of knowledge all constantly clamouring for his attention every which way he looked.

Sherlock blinked at him with an expression of vague confusion. "What does that have to do with pills or not getting out of bed?"

Eric shrugged again. "Nothin', just wondering."

"Oh, well..." Sherlock trailed off, glancing away with a sort of thoughtful look on his face. "I think a library implies some degree of _organisation_. So no, not really."

"What's it like, then?"

Sherlock frowned at him. "What's _your_ brain like?"

"I... dunno? I never really thought about it," Eric admitted after a slight pause. "Maybe like... shelves, I guess? Wit' stuff on 'em?"

That really didn't cover the spaces _around_ the shelves - the writhing storm of anxiety and fear and buried terror of old memories... but he figured that wasn't really the sort of stuff you talked about with someone you'd just started dating _yesterday._

"Shelves," Sherlock repeated flatly. He rolled his eyes and let his head flop down onto Eric's chest. "How utterly boring and practical."

"Well I ain't exactly a big thinker, am I?" Eric countered with a quirked smile for Sherlock's obvious exasperation.

Sherlock didn't reply besides a halfhearted _hmph_, evidently halfway to falling asleep or zoning out or whatever it was he did when he was tired but still half-tweaked on coke. Taking that as a cue that they were more or less done with conversation Eric let his eyes drift shut. True, his arm was actually starting to hurt like a right _bitch..._ but maybe if he just focussed on something else he could force himself to go back to sleep anyway. He decided to work on keeping his breathing as even as possible - that usually did the trick.

After a few moments, though, Sherlock raised his head again. "I _told_ you your arm would start hurting."

"Who says it's hurtin'?" Eric replied in a sleepy grumble. He opened one eye to find Sherlock regarding him with an odd, sort of half-stern, half... _something..._ expression.

"You're attempting to breathe at regular eight-second intervals, an obvious distraction technique."

Eric huffed an annoyed sigh and opened both eyes, scowling slightly. "An' it were workin' just fine until you went an' bothered me 'bout it."

They stared each other down for a brief moment, before Sherlock's face abruptly shifted into a devious smirk. "If it's _distraction _you're after I can think of a few more effective options than breathing patterns."

"Can y'now?" Eric responded, trying to contain a snort of laughter. Not that Sherlock was all that bad at flirting, really - because granted that _was_ a rather sly come-on, and quite hot besides - but it was just, y'know... _Sherlock._ Making an _innuendo._ The very thought was hilarious simply for how completely impossible it should have been.

Still, Eric found his smile creeping into a grin. Sherlock smiled too, then leaned forward to kiss him.

And what followed after _that_, Eric had to admit, was a pretty damned good distraction.

**««**


	3. Human

**««**

Sherlock was, yet again, prodding at the basin of cold water in the sink where his coat and sweatshirt were busy soaking.

Eric thought about telling him to stop, or perhaps walking into the kitchen and physically dragging the git back into the sitting room... but decided against it, choosing instead to simply continue lying on the sofa. His head was swimming a bit thanks to the oxy, and he really just didn't feel like doing much of anything at all. Let Sherlock fuck with the wash as much as he wanted - they were his clothes to mess up anyway.

"Does the salt help break down the serum proteins?" Sherlock asked as he finally wandered back into the sitting room. "It must, I suppose, but then how are the wool fibres spared? There's a stark difference in scale of course but you would think the underlying principle would result in degradation at a fundamental level regardless."

"Sherly, I ain't got no fuckin' clue what yer talkin' about," Eric muttered from under the arm he'd flung over his eyes. He was really starting to wish he'd just foregone the oxy entirely and smoked himself into a stupor instead. At least then he wouldn't be feeling so bloody _ill._

"I'm trying to figure out how your stain removal technique works," Sherlock clarified, sounding ridiculously cheerful about what really should have been the most dead-boring topic imaginable; obviously he was quite high. Eric didn't really mind, though - ever since he'd told Sherlock about being creeped out by the whole _bleedin' android_ thing the other boy had tended to default to talkative and happy instead of frigid stillness whenever he did a hit.

But of course that only applied when it was just the two of them. No matter how giddy he'd managed to get himself on coke Sherlock would, without fail, _always_ snap back to his cold façade the second anyone besides Eric was in earshot.

As if the universe was reading his thoughts Eric heard the sound of the front door opening. He looked over to Sherlock (who'd been hovering by the arm of the sofa, hands tucked into the front pocket of the dark green jumper Eric had leant him while his Oxford sweatshirt was soaking) and watched as, sure enough, the lanky prat immediately locked right up into his chilly _robot aristocrat_ persona.

Ben strode into the room a second later. "Hey, guys!" he greeted cheerfully.

"Benjamin," Sherlock intoned in a bland monotone, quite suddenly looking as if he couldn't care less where he was or who he was with. Eric just barely managed to resist the urge to roll his eyes at the act. That was just how Sherlock dealt with social anxiety, he reminded himself, and it was hardly fair to judge the guy for what was obviously an effective coping technique... even if it _was_ a bit two-faced and occasionally disturbing.

"'Lo, Benny," Eric mumbled as he lowered his arm back over his eyes.

Ben ambled over and poked his head over the back of the sofa. "You still feelin' like shit, mate?"

"Yup," Eric replied.

Ben clicked his tongue slightly in disapproval. "Ah, well... just remember to hit me up if you need anything with a bit more _pep_, yeah? Racer's got the good stuff right now, post-holidays and all."

"Thanks, Benny. Think I'll be fine wit' what I got," Eric mumbled back. It was a nice offer and all, but he _really_ hated stimulants. They always put him on edge, even _more_ terrified of mundane shit than usual, prone to panic attacks... plus they tended to make his heart feel as if it were seconds away from exploding. He'd never once experienced the sort of energetic euphoria Ben seemed to derive from the stuff, and _certainly_ never got... well, whatever the hell it was Sherlock got off coke. Hyper-calm? _Roboticised?_

Speaking of the prat, though... Eric shifted his arm a bit to watch as Sherlock's face darkened imperceptibly at the mere mention of Racer _(and jesus christ, of all the dealers to get on the bad side of...)_ while Ben just smiled genially at them over the back of the sofa.

"Right-ho, then!" he exclaimed with a laugh. "Thought I'd offer anyway. So, what're you kids up to today?"

He said this last with a glance up to Sherlock, who stared impassively back before shifting his gaze away toward the kitchen with a slight shrug. "I'm purifying cocaine."

Ben quirked an eyebrow. "Huh. Well... that sure sounds like fun."

"Not really," Sherlock responded in an unimpressed deadpan as he looked back to them. Eric honestly couldn't tell if he'd missed the sarcasm or just chosen not to acknowledge it.

Ben hesitated, apparently also confused by the reply, and Eric decided he should really speak up before this ended up any more awkward than it'd already gotten. He let his arm flop off the side of the couch with a heavy sigh and stared morosely up at Ben.

"Me, I ain't doin' shit but lyin' here."

"Well yeah, I kinda figured _that_." Ben smiled again, chuckling, and took a step away from the couch as he tucked his hands into his jeans pockets. "Welp, anyway! I been up since like yesterday, gotta get some sleep. You two lovebirds stay out of trouble!" He flashed them a roguish wink and a grin, then turned to amble off toward the stairs whistling to himself. Eric scowled at the word _lovebirds_ but felt too ill to really do anything about it. Ben was already on his way to his room anyhow - well out of kicking range.

"_Lovebirds?_" Sherlock repeated a few seconds after Ben had gone, his chilly façade evaporating as quickly as it had come in favour of scrunching his face up in abject, almost comical disgust. Despite the general shit state he was in Eric smiled and huffed a short laugh - of_ course _Sherlock would go and drop his android act with a look like _that_, of all expressions.

"He's just teasin' us," he assured, still smiling. Ben _always _said that kind of stuff - innuendos and silly jabs about Eric shacking up with anyone they even remotely interacted with, laughing like a jackal whenever his younger friend got embarrassed. Presumably Eric having _actually_ slept with someone after god-knew-how-long would be a source of constant amusement to their housemate for weeks to come.

Sherlock looked like he didn't know quite what to make of that. After a short pause he half-rolled his eyes and turned toward the kitchen, apparently deciding to change the subject. "How long until my coat is clean?"

_Ugh_, back to the bleeding wash again. Eric sighed and let his head flop sideways into the couch cushions. "Y'asked me that ten minutes ago."

"Did I?"

"Yeah," Eric shifted his head to glower up at Sherlock. "Y'forgot already?"

"No," Sherlock replied with a vaguely affronted look. A beat later though he frowned to himself and looked away. "I thought it had been longer than that."

_Oh_, Eric realised, that was right - for all his crazy genius superpowers, Sherlock actually seemed to have serious difficulty keeping accurate track of the passage of time. He'd think fifteen minutes had been an hour, a couple hours a whole day... and apparently a large portion of the morning spent filtering his cocaine solution had somehow registered to him as no more than a few seconds, judging by how startled he'd looked when he finally caught sight of a clock. Must be confusing as hell.

Eric felt his expression soften. Beyond all the aristocratic poise and impossible wealth of knowledge it was nice to know Sherlock still had _some _shortcomings.

"It's noon," he supplied helpfully, nodding toward the ancient plastic clock on the wall behind the telly. Sherlock glanced over.

"Oh." Another pause, then he huffed to himself and looked back to Eric. "Don't tell anyone I didn't know that."

"Won't breathe a word," Eric promised with a bemused smirk. Sherlock regarded him dubiously for a moment, then seemed to accept the assurance and nodded once in a matter-of-fact way.

"Good," he quipped, and went back into the kitchen - probably to fuck around with his coat and sweatshirt again, but who cared. Not like he could do much more damage to the items than they'd already sustained anyway.

Eric smiled and leant back to throw his arm over his eyes again. If Sherlock wanted to continue pretending to be perfect around everyone else, that was fine. Keep up appearances, throw on the android act... whatever helped him deal with things.

But between the two of them, he'd always just be human.

**««**


	4. Pasts

**««**

There was an unspoken rule in the distribution ring: don't talk about pasts.

None of them were really there by choice. Each tenant had come to the organisation through a series of personal tragedies - lost loved ones, driven from their homes, abused or abandoned or any number of terrible situations. Asking about someone's family, their life before the distribution ring... it was just another cruel reminder of everything they'd lost.

But still, Eric wondered.

Ben, he knew the most about. They'd been friends for a couple years now, actually, having met just a few weeks after Eric finally gave up on everything. Marijuana had been just about the only thing keeping Eric from jumping off a bridge at that point - smoking let him forget, and forgetting made it stop _hurting_... even if only for a little bit. Those fleeting moments of empty-headed bliss became his sole purpose for living.

Of course then he'd quit his job, dropped out of anything even remotely resembling civil responsibility, and in doing so had rather abruptly found himself without the means to buy weed. A few days of unwilling sobriety, lacking even the medication he'd been forced into taking after the whole "incident" _(which at the time hadn't seemed to help him one fucking bit, but then maybe that was just because illegal chemicals were so much stronger)_, and taking a dip in the Thames had started to seem like a pretty decent alternative.

Luckily he'd decided to at least make an _attempt _to get some quick cash before going for the more permanent solution. Ben had been a plucky young dealer back then, grinning like a loon as he flirted with any remotely female-shaped figure heading past his street corner. Pretty obviously straight, but Eric figured even if _he_ wasn't interested he could at least point him in the direction of someone who might be.

Ben hadn't given him directions to any other dealers, though. No, he'd taken one look at the miserable kid huddled in front of him, palms pressing together fitfully in an attempt to keep from breaking down in hysterics, and promptly offered to buy him a stiff drink.

From there Eric had found himself shepherded into one crew after another, always dogging along in Ben's shadow. Apparently having grown up learning to maintain his sanity while trying to raise a couple of rowdy little girls and look after his frequently-deranged mum had given Eric something of a golden touch when dealing with drug addicts. Not much anyone could say to phase him, after all - not when the most frequent dinner conversation back home had been a spirited discussion between his seven year old sisters and his schizophrenic mother on the merits of clingfilm versus tinfoil in keeping the alien signals out of your brain.

He'd quickly found his niche as a sort of mediator. Dealer having trouble with a client? Call in that freckle-faced gay kid, he'll get it sorted. Someone threatening to shoot the place up if they don't get their shipment? Nobody can stay mad at the little faggot, throw him in there to peace-talk. Eric wasn't entirely convinced of his so-called 'skills' now being passed around as some sort of recruiting beacon, but Ben took care of the advertising for him. Got him a job with Flanagan's crew, smoothed things over with Luce even when the brief romance he'd shared with the half-mad speedfreak collapsed into a smoking ruin. Eric honestly owed his life to Ben several times over.

It had taken him awhile to figure out why someone like Ben would even _do_ any of this - why take some neurotic little stoner under his wing, stick his neck out for him over and over, with no hope of repayment?

But he'd caught on eventually: Ben was just as alone as he was.

A few drunken conversations and late-night talks had pried the majority of the story out of him. Ben's dad had been in the military - overseas, deployed and returned a half dozen times. Whenever he was home, he'd teach his young son all about the importance of responsibility, kindness, generosity. Ben's mum had been your typical doting military wife, proud of her husband, supportive of her only son... really just the perfect little family unit.

But then came the last deployment... the one where Dad didn't come home. The one where a crisp letter and a phone call broke the news instead - shot through the heart, dead in seconds. Ben's mum held herself together for nearly a year afterwards, long enough for her son to take his GCSEs... then she'd succumbed to the depression with a fatal vodka-and-valium mixer.

Ben hadn't had any other family to turn to. He'd tried to continue his education, perhaps go on to uni, but for one reason or another it hadn't worked out. Dealing drugs had been a quicker, easier alternative. _Especially_ when he discovered how much better he felt tweaked than sober. Sell a little weed, buy himself some Ecstasy - instant happiness.

He'd never forgotten the sense of belonging he'd had with his mum and dad alive, though. Nor the lessons his dad had taught him, the stories of bravery and compassion. So when a sad, trembling little wreck of a traumatised stoner came looking for help in the worst way possible, he'd taken him in as a friend. They became each other's family - brothers, sometimes annoying and _always_ looking for a way to get under each other's skin, but bound in blood regardless.

Charley was a little bit more difficult, mostly because Eric didn't know him all that well.

Chuck and Ben had gone to the same school when they were younger, which was how they knew each other, but aside from that the muscular parkourist didn't seem to have much in common with _any _of them. Obsessed with personal health, to the point of refusing to eat or drink anything he hadn't prepared himself, and choosing to use his formidable maths abilities to help a distribution ring balance its finances instead of, say, getting a proper job. Ben said Chuck did it for the money - Eric really couldn't see what on earth would make _this_ a more lucrative option than legal employment. Surely taxes weren't that much a drain?

One day he caught sight of a stack of outgoing post, though, and suddenly Charley's almost fanatical devotion to healthy living and saving every last scrap of his money made a lot more sense. An envelope, stuffed with cash by the looks of it, addressed to a hospital room. The name had been covered up by a handful of postcards piled on top of it _(Ben liked to send unsolicited mail with dirty messages written on to his mates in other parts of the city, just to piss them off) _but Eric didn't really need to know who it was. Family or friend, parent or sibling... hell maybe a _child?_ Whatever the case it was obviously personal. Eric didn't pry.

Sherlock was the easiest to figure out. (Though granted, it was a bit of a cheat to puzzle out the history of someone who willingly let you see them naked. But hell it wasn't like Eric was trying to get some sort of high score with all this nonsense.)

Bullying in school was a given, just based on how Sherlock locked up around people. And the fighting skills, obviously... nobody learned how to throw a punch like that unless they needed to know how to defend themselves. So, fine, he'd got the shit kicked out of him a few_ (dozen) _times. Judging by how utter crap he was with basic social graces and his general level of impossibly frustrating knowledge that wasn't too much of a surprise. Maybe even enough to lead to dropping out and developing a coke habit. But that wasn't all of it...

No, because then there was the whole _mimicking people _business.

As far as Eric could tell, Sherlock had three basic personas he used regularly: there was the 'normal' version, apparently reserved for conversations with Eric - the personality he used when he didn't have to worry about offending anyone with his strange, frequently off-putting rambles about whatever-the-hell and random jumps in topic as his brain out-paced his mouth. Eric liked that one the best, of course. Next up was the _android aristocrat_, which he used around people he either didn't know or didn't like. Eric wasn't too keen on that one but he could tolerate it well enough.

The last, however... his last persona was _fucking terrifying_.

Eric had only seen it in full force once now - when Sherlock had frightened off that thug on the night Eric's wrist got dislocated. There'd been hints here and there before then however. Used it on Ben when the enterprising thief had nicked his bank card _(Eric was convinced Ben just did that to screw with the new guy, but it was always difficult to tell_), and again toward Devin before he'd snapped and started yelling instead. On the surface it was nothing more than a sort of frigid calm; his robot act ramped up a notch, perhaps, or just a trick he'd learned to scare people.

Take a longer look, though, and there was obviously something much deeper - something dark, cold, and _horrifying._

Because Sherlock was _definitely_ imitating someone when he did that. Eric could see it in the way his whole demeanour shifted, speech patterns and diction changing... he even held his body differently. This wasn't a set of tricks he'd come up with himself, but a _person_ - someone he'd been around long enough to learn how to mirror. And, judging by how he seemed to use it as a last-resort tactic... someone he was _scared to death of._

Pinpointing who this _mysterious person _might be wasn't exactly difficult. In fact the 'disowned' comment over lunch that first day pretty much settled it. What kind of parent kicks out their kid over a drug addiction, after all, but a supremely awful one?

What confirmed it once and for all, though, were the scars.

Not many, and not very big - honestly just a few short rough patches of skin on his back. He'd waved them away as some sort of childhood tree-climbing accident. Eric pretended to accept that. Easier than pointing out how falling from a tree didn't generally leave perfectly horizontal marks in the exact diameter of a cane, or asking how crashing through a trunk full of branches only left a handful of faded cuts right in the middle of one's shoulder blades.

And anyway for all his social ineptitude Sherlock was actually something of a master at changing the subject_ (subtly or not)_, meaning that every time Eric so much as _mentioned_ child abuse or scars or poor parenting he'd somehow suddenly find himself dragged into a conversation about bees, dirt samples, genetics, chemistry... all stuff Eric had absolutely _no hope_ of keeping up with; which, he supposed, was probably the point. Sherlock was trying to confound him with facts, make him forget what they'd originally been talking about through sheer mental overload.

Embarrassingly enough that tactic worked brilliantly. Eric's eyes tended to glaze over at the merest hint of anything related to academics, _especially_ anything resembling maths; Sherlock had of course picked up on that escape route almost immediately and had no qualms about using it to his advantage.

But still, when all was said and done, when Sherlock's nattering on about physics equations had finally forced Eric's brain into a full systems shutdown and he was forced to ignore his boyfriend or go mad... still, he wondered.

Wondered about families, about life, about the future. About how random fate and human cruelty could conspire to bring two lost souls together, and about whether the chance to find someone you truly cared for could ever be worth the heartbreak that forced your separate paths to cross.

Mostly, though... he wondered about pasts.

**««**


	5. Films

**««**

In retrospect getting Sherlock to sit still long enough to watch a film should probably have struck Eric as a _bit_ more impossible than he'd originally bargained for.

Still, sometimes he liked to believe his boyfriend was at least _somewhat_ capable of behaving like a normal 20-something adult. So while the mysterious collection of beakers and tubes in the kitchen was busy doing whatever magic it did to get stuff out of other stuff and leave pure cocaine behind Eric thought it might be fun to watch a DVD together.

Sherlock, of course, was _much_ less than enthused by the idea.

"I _hate_ films," he groused as Eric muddled his way through the menu screen of his Xbox one-handed. "Sitting in one spot for _hours_ just to observe some contrived, encapsulated little story play out. It's the very _definition_ of a waste of time!"

"Sherly, you spent like forty minutes this morning lookin' at a goddamn spiderweb," Eric pointed out half-irritably as he glared at his selection pointer skittering about the screen. Stupid bleeding controller was just so _bulky_, it was practically impossible to work the joystick and hit the right buttons all with one hand.

"It was an _interesting_ spiderweb." Apparently catching on to Eric's issues with the controller he leant forward with a short huff of a sigh and grabbed the device himself. "What am I doing, then?"

"Select th' little DVD thing an then hit 'play'," Eric supplied. Sherlock obeyed, and soon enough they managed to get the disc up and running. Despite this minor success Sherlock still seemed extremely annoyed.

"I could be re-organising my beakers," he grumbled as Eric took the controller back and set it on the floor. As usual they'd ended up sprawled half-on, half-off each other on the undersized sofa.

"Just shut up an' watch th' film."

Half an hour later and Eric was beginning to realise that,_ just maybe_, he should perhaps have chosen a different movie. Because introducing someone like Sherlock to modern cinema with a film like _Donnie Darko_ was going exceedingly... well, not quite _poorly, _but at least very strangely.

"Does this _ever_ start to make sense?" Sherlock asked, sounding almost indignant as on the screen Donnie started to dream again. "What's he got an axe for!?"

Eric elbowed him lightly in the stomach in a futile attempt to shut him up. "If ya quit askin' questions and _watch_ maybe you'll find out."

"Or maybe I _won't_," Sherlock retorted hotly. Still, he stopped whingeing long enough to hear the next scene, which did in fact explain the axe. A further half hour managed to pass by in relative peace... punctuated, of course, by Sherlock's random outbursts in response to whatever he percieved to be plot holes and Eric intermittently elbowing him in the midsection.

"So the whole plot of the film is set in a tangent universe which split off from the moment where he wasn't crushed by the jet engine," Sherlock finally decided a little after the midpoint of the film.

"How th'_fuck_ did you figure that out?" Eric replied, blinking. They weren't even to the last section yet and Sherlock had already pieced together the entire thing?

"It's said as much about four times now, hasn't it? And if you read the book pages between scenes it's practically spelled out for you," Sherlock pointed out in an unimpressed monotone. "Can I go back to my chemistry setup now?"

"No," Eric asserted, shoving the brunt of his bodyweight on top of Sherlock to make sure the lanky prat couldn't escape. "We're watchin' a bleedin' film together and we're gonna watch _all_ of it."

Sherlock sighed heavily, but didn't try to get up. "Fine. He's only going to get flattened by the engine at the end though."

Sure enough, Donnie ended up dead. Sherlock seemed ridiculously smug about this, until Eric pointed out that he hadn't been able to figure out ahead of time exactly who _Frank _was nor that Gretchen would be killed, which seemed to put him in a bit of a sulk.

"I can't deduce things without sufficient data!" he'd snapped, shoving Eric off him. "And anyway who cares what happens to a load of fictional people in some American film? It's not important."

Eric grinned and let himself flop back onto the couch cushions as Sherlock made to storm off in a huff. "Yer just grumpy cause y'ain't quite as clever as you think y'are."

"I am _every bit_ as clever as I think I am," Sherlock retorted. "Your choice of entertainment is simply _moronic._"

Yawning slightly - between half an oxy and perhaps one too many joints he was actually starting to feel a bit exhausted - Eric raised his good hand in a sarcastic salute. "Whatever y'say, mate."

Sherlock paused in his retreat to the kitchen. After a brief moment of apparent indecision he turned back around. "If you can find something less _ridiculous_ to watch I'll be done with the next purification step in around fifteen minutes."

Eric grinned. "Oh aye? Gonna spend the whole time figuring out th'end before the story's halfway through again?"

"Probably." Sherlock shrugged and turned to amble off toward the other room. "You didn't actually mind me doing so the first time, however, so I expect you're fine with that."

And with a flippant little wave over his shoulder, he disappeared.

Eric huffed to himself, pretending to be irritated. "It were really bleedin' annoying, actually!"

Sherlock didn't acknowledge him. Eric frowned, then shifted his head toward the milk cartons they called shelves in their run-down little rat's nest of a house.

A grin split his face as he caught sight of the DVD furthest from the left. _Hah!_

Ignoring the faint twinge of protest from his wrist Eric clambered off the sofa and retrieved an old, battered copy of _The Matrix._ Let's see Sherlock deduce all the fun out of _this _one.

Forty minutes later they were both shouting at each other like idiots as Sherlock proceeded to pick apart _every single possible plot hole_ in the story, no matter Eric's insistence that it was _just a bleedin' movie, yer not supposed to think about it so much!_ And maybe that should have been completely annoying, infuriating, downright bloody _stressful_.

But somehow it wasn't. No, Sherlock had _(as bleeding usual) _been entirely correct in his assessment earlier - Eric didn't actually mind one bit.

Because no matter how much they irritated, confused, or _pissed each other off_... they were still _together_. Two halves of a pair, not just a couple of scattered lonely hearts.

And that, Eric decided, was enough to keep him content.

... even if Sherlock _did_ ruin films.

**««**


	6. Dreams

**A/N: **_Writer's block, guh. Have some fluff._

* * *

**««**

Sherlock seemed to prefer to keep to something like a 36-hour-to-a-day schedule as a general rule. Most stimulant addicts were like that, Eric knew, but it didn't stop the vague worry that one of these mornings he was going to wake up to find the stubborn idiot facedown in one of his chemicals, dead asleep.

So he did his best to try to drag Sherlock off to bed whenever it seemed remotely possible to persuade him to rest. This usually happened between doses of cocaine, when Sherlock was too distracted by his chemistry or fiddling around with Eric's guitar or failing miserably at Halo to remember to shoot up. Eric would watch for the heavy blinking, the furrowed brow against a growing crash headache, slight slurring of speech... it was all really pretty obvious when you knew what to look for.

Then he'd begin with that particular brand of gentle but persistent nagging he'd perfected so many years ago with his baby sisters. Always _suggestions_, never orders - that way they thought it was their idea. The method seemed to work equal wonders on both primary school girls and twenty-something geniuses.

Actually in honest truth rather a _lot_ of Eric's techniques regarding keeping an eye on Sherlock stemmed from his skills in looking after young children... and that was probably quite a bad sign when discussing someone you were meant to be _dating_.

But hell whatever worked, right?

"Y'should sleep sometime soon," he pointed out as Sherlock yawned for the second time in ten minutes. Eric had actually succeeded in getting the prat to eat a halfway-decent meal and they were now sitting at the kitchen table, Sherlock fiddling with the last dregs of his chicken soup and Eric debating the best way to do dishes while the sink was full of lab equipment.

"I've got things filtering," Sherlock objected halfheartedly.

Finally Eric decided to simply dump their two bowls in the basin alongside the beakers and figure out how to go about washing them tomorrow. He plucked Sherlock's mostly-finished dish out from under the prat's idly prodding spoon and stacked it on top of his own.

"I don't see why shit filterin' means y'gotta stay awake."

Sherlock frowned as his food-based entertainment was washed out into the sink. "Something might... knock them over. Or get stuck, I guess... I don't know."

Eric half-smiled to himself. And there was the most obvious sign of Sherlock-sleepiness: complete inability to string together a sentence. Apparently even geniuses could get too tired to talk.

"I think they'll prolly be fine overnight." Eric turned back around to find Sherlock leaning his head heavily on one hand, spoon tapping listlessly against the scuffed tabletop.

"Maybe," he mumbled. Eric raised an eyebrow in mild exasperation and grabbed his boyfriend's arm to drag him into a standing position.

"Bed," he ordered simply. It was a testament to how completely knackered Sherlock must have been that he didn't bother arguing - just grumbled something indistinct and wandered off toward the stairs under his own power.

Soon enough they were both in their pyjamas (which in Sherlock's case just meant he'd taken his jeans and sweatshirt off - he still hadn't bothered to obtain any clothes of his own, instead preferring to perpetually ransack Eric's wardrobe for t-shirts and underthings). Eric, for his part, was quite ready to fall asleep the second his head hit the pillow.

Hours must have passed in an instant, because the next Eric opened his eyes it was to the twilight darkness of his room. His scant collection of secondhand furniture stood bathed in the half-light from the streetlamp outside, the muted sounds of Stockwell's night life filtering like phantom noises through the walls. Eric lay still under the covers and blinked at the far wall with a slightly quizzical furrow to his brows as he tried to figure out what in hell had woken him up. He didn't usually have vivid dreams on oxy - the stuff knocked him out far too fast and way too heavily for any real images to form. So probably not a nightmare... but what, then?

That question was answered when he finally mustered the willpower to shove himself over onto his back, looking around the rest of the room - and more specifically to the other side of the mattress.

Beside him Sherlock was sitting up ramrod straight, legs tangled in the duvet as he stared at the darkness of the room with an expression of blank terror. Eric pushed himself up on his good arm and regarded the other man with concern - the skinny prat was trembling very slightly, panting like he'd just run a marathon... and good christ he looked bloody _scared._

"Sherlock...?" Eric asked hesitantly after a moment. He wasn't entirely sure if Sherlock was awake or still trapped in some sort of dream world.

Sherlock startled, head whipping around to look down at Eric. His skin glowed a deathly pale white in the weak light.

"Who-?" he started, then abruptly cut off as he seemed to realise where he was. With a jerky shake of his head he scrunched his face up and pinched the bridge of his nose as if fighting off a headache. _"Fucking hell..."_

"Nightmare?" Eric guessed, quirking a sympathetic smile. Sherlock scowled under his hand and let his arm drop as he turned to glare out the window.

"No," he uttered tersely. The lie was dead obvious, but Eric didn't press the issue. Instead he just smiled again, expression soft and tinged with a hint of pitying sadness _(and hopefully Sherlock would miss that in the gloom, else Eric was in for a solid day of stoic robot instead of the usual spastic nutcase - if there was one thing Sherlock absolutely hated it was pity). _Well, that was probably it for sleep tonight then. Even though it was barely half past two in the morning, and they'd gone to bed at eleven... but really four and a half hours was about as good as anyone could ask for with a coke habit like Sherlock's. Quite decent actually.

"You gettin' up, then?" Eric asked with a half-stifled yawn.

Most likely the prat'd go do another hit - chase off the lingering wisps of fear in a chemical haze then spend the next twenty hours happily immersed in his chemistry work. That was just fine with Eric; he rather fancied having the whole duvet to himself again anyway.

Sherlock didn't immediately answer him. Instead the fierce glare of his expression slowly melted into a blank, faraway look. Still staring out the window he spoke again.

"Do you think I'm insane?"

Eric blinked. Where the hell had _that _come from? What, had Sherlock been dreaming about some sort of fucked-up acid trip magic adventure or something? Eric snorted softly to himself in amusement at the mental imagery and let himself flop back onto the pillows.

"Yer a bleedin' nutter," he replied without hesitation. Sherlock seemed to startle a bit and turned to blink down at him with a somewhat affronted look - apparently he'd been expecting a denial or some other sort of reassurance. Eric just smirked back. "But so's everyone else. Ain't nobody quite right in the head, s'what makes 'em all different."

Sherlock regarded him for a few seconds, an expression of vague confusion creeping over his face. Finally his features settled into a perplexed sort of half-glare. "That doesn't make any sense."

"No?" Eric frowned to himself. He made a token effort to analyse what he'd said - thoughts meandering along through the half-stoned, still-sleepy haze in his head - but almost immediately gave up. It hardly mattered anyway; Sherlock would just argue circles around any explanation Eric could possibly think up. With an unconcerned shrug and a yawn he rolled over onto his uninjured side and flapped a dismissive hand over his shoulder. "Eh, I dunno then. Yer prolly fine."

He heard Sherlock huff a quiet breath of bemusement, but there was no sign of a clever comeback. Instead another few minutes of companionable silence passed between them.

Sherlock had apparently chosen to continue sitting upright on the mattress staring at whatever-the-hell, still and unmoving in the darkness. Beside him Eric found himself beginning to slip back into slumber under the warm blankets.

Eventually Sherlock's voice broke into the settling fog of sleep.

"Do you mind if I stay here and read for a while?"

The question was accompanied by shifting weight, the soft clicks and whirring of a computer booting up - he'd evidently retrieved Eric's laptop from beside the bed.

Eric didn't even bother opening his eyes. "Y'know I don't."

"Thought I'd ask anyway," Sherlock replied in a low mumble, voice slightly distracted as he clicked around whatever website he'd pulled up. Seconds later he added on a muttered; "... good lord, your browser layout is _completely _inefficient."

Eric pressed a fond smile into his pillow, content to let Sherlock's litany of quiet complaining follow him into his dreams.

**««**


End file.
